Earlier this month, I lost my nearly 19-year-old cat. It’s a loss that has left me devastated and totally lacking in creative drive. I show up for my weekly podcast recording and keep to my streaming schedule, but the simple act of writing this post has taken days of self-encouragement. Work has been a series of refreshing Facebook or staring blankly at Reddit instead of doing my most routine tasks. In short, I’ve been a useless lump.
15 months prior to Cleo’s death, I went through a similar bout of depression after losing her sister. I spent 15 long months dreading the day when they’d both be gone. Now that it’s come, I spend a lot of time being kind of numb. And it’s one of those things where I keep forgetting she’s no longer with me, so I’ll look for her briefly before I remember I’m never seeing her again. And it tears my heart open a little every single time. Every day. Even knowing a week in advance that the day was coming didn’t help much. I’m glad she’s no longer suffering, but that’s little consolation when I’m missing a companion who has been around my entire adult life.
I’ve told myself that this doesn’t need to be a long post and I’m sticking to that. The important part is writing, even though I still don’t feel like it. I wish I had some wonderful insights about grief and healing that I could pass along to readers, but I don’t. It’s sad, it hurts, and it intensifies the feelings of loneliness I was already experiencing. Part of me wants the sadness to stop, but part of me clings to it like it’s the last vestige I have of her. Meanwhile, all I feel I can do outwardly is to carry on with life and routines. It sucks, but I don’t have any other answers.
Spurr of the Moment 